Losing My Religion, Part II

I’m not a huge Danny Glover fan, but when he says, “I’m too old for this shit,” in ‘Lethal Weapon’ (1, 2, 3 & 4), sister, I hear him loud and clear.

I jumped off the NR at Union and Fourth and walked to Great lakes for another Smith Family show. I’m not sure if I writhe around on the dirty barroom floor for me, or for the audience, but there I am. In the moment, it’s the intoxication of performance. But in retrospect, at 33-years-old, it’s just a little bit embarrassing.

1:27 a.m. on a school night, 32 degrees, Fourth Avenue (‘Didn’t I just run here on Sunday?’), searching the inky black night for a white cab light.

“I’m too old for this shit.”

2:12 a.m., Broadway and 80th buying a sesame seed bagel at H & H.

“I’m too old for this shit.”

Looking down at my tattered and faded Abercrombie & Fitch jeans thinking, “What are you, twelve? You’re too old for this shit.”

I’m thirty-three. It’s time to own it. Whatever “it” is.